


Gray Days

by DixieDale



Category: The Girl from U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 13:51:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19230400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Gray days settle in around the Slate/Dancer team, with no silver lining in sight.  Mark Slate has taken the wild notion that April needs a new and different partner, one way or the other, and April is trying to come to grips with the sudden shift in his behavior.   A new partner?? Well, not if April has anything to say about it!  She might be a lady, and a very well-educated one, but 'quit' just isn't in her vocabulary, not when it's concerning something as important as her partner and their partnership.





	Gray Days

***April's POV:  
Mark hadn't been the same since he came back from that assignment in . . . Well, to tell the truth, April never had found out where he'd been for those couple of weeks. She'd been down with a nasty case of the flu and Mark had been shipped off somewhere, to work on a project either running solo or with someone else, and she'd fretted as much about him as she had her cringeworthy symptoms. 

When she'd asked, when he'd come back, he'd paused and then instead of sitting alongside and giving her the details, he'd forced a semblance of a smile to his face and offered, "you give me a blow by blow of your flu, April, and I'll do the same with this job. Otherwise I'll give it a pass this time." She shuddered at the thought, remembering the gruesome details of those days, and dropped the subject. Maybe that had been a mistake.

Now, he just wasn't the same Mark Slate she'd got so accustomed to working with, being around. There were no jokes, no teasing. She could count the number of even half-hearted smiles she'd gotten on one hand, and that was over a period of three weeks now. 

He 'wasn't in the mood' for dinner at Venara's when she'd invited him, and had bowed out of the prearranged viewing of that new exhibit at the Modern Museum of Art, the one by special-invitation only. She'd wandered the gallery by herself, fending off a couple of mashers, wishing Mark was there to make his usual insightful, sometimes hilarious observations about the works hanging on the wall and perched on pedestals around the room. It all seemed just a little flat without him; even the champagne seemed to have lost its bubbles.

He'd 'forgotten' about George Carlin's opening at the local comedy club, and when she'd reminded him that afternoon that they had tickets, he'd pushed back from attending, though he'd been eager enough when they'd first heard about the comedian's upcoming performance. 

"Be better off working on your own impersonations, April, maybe add a few variations to your own routine," he'd told her rather sternly, sounding more like Waverly than himself. "Doubt watching Carlin maunder on is going to get you out of the next rough spot with Thrush, now is it?" As for him, he had undisclosed 'better things' to do.

She'd ended up going with Mandy Stevenson from Translations, and while it was fun, still, she missed having her partner beside her.

He was pushing her harder and harder, too. More hand-to-hand workouts, more practice on the range, pushing new gadgets on her that Research had come up with. Well, that was all to the good, probably, and she had no trouble meeting whatever challenges he came up with, (though surely that new minature rocket launcher was NOT going to fit into any purse she'd be likely to be carrying!), but still, there was an underlying anxiety, even desperation to his pushing, and that worried her.

And then there was Mark, himself. The haircut was new, and while nice, just a bit conventional for the Englishman. And the new wardrobe? She just wanted to roll her eyes at what he was appearing in now, though Waverly seemed to be approving. Well, she wasn't; that might be all well and good for someone else, but not for her partner. Why, he actually was starting to look stuffy! Though that probably went hand and glove with his new manner and attitude, she realized. Well, she wasn't happy about it, not one little bit.

She wondered where her partner had gone, who this detached gray automaton was and where he'd come from. Oh, it was Mark; she knew Thrush hadn't dropped in a ringer on her. But it wasn't HER Mark; something had caused a major change, one she didn't much care for.

One thing was for sure, it had started when she'd had that case of the flu and he'd gone off on his own. Maybe if she found out where he'd been during that time, what might have happened. Maybe then she'd know where to start. She wanted her partner back, and damn it, she was going to get him back or know the reason why!

She didn't have the leverage to get the answers she needed, but she knew who did, and that morning Mark had been involved with a project in the Computer Section, she tapped on the door to the office where Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin spent their time when they weren't off chasing after bad guys. They were just back from a long stay in Hong Kong, so they hadn't been around for the personality shift, but she pulled up a chair and gave them the details. They promised to help, and she could only grit her teeth and slough through.

 

***Mark's POV:  
April was recovering from the flu and would soon be back to her old self. Lucky her. The same couldn't be said for him. His 'old self' needed to take a long hike, to be replaced by a 'new and improved self', and he admitted it was going to take some major effort. After all, he'd been fairly comfortable with his old self. Still, change was rarely easy, but sometimes it was necessary, and this was probably the most necessary change he'd ever be faced with.

Yes, it was time to make some changes; he didn't really have a choice. He knew what was important, what wasn't, and there just was no comparison. He couldn't believe he'd been that selfish, hadn't seen just how badly he'd messed up, what the ramifications could be. Guess he should be grateful it had all been made so clear to him, though it had been at a bloody awful cost.

Still, there was time to change; time to get it right. At least, he could try, and if it turned out he wasn't up for the job, well, he knew what he had to do. And he'd do it, rightly enough. Most likely the Old Man would grump, at least out loud, but would probably be more than a little pleased to settle April with a new partner. Someone better suited. Someone a hell of a lot different than him. Someone not so likely to muck it all up.

He'd decided to start by giving in to the Old Man's complaining about his appearance. New crisp haircut, different enough he didn't look like himself when he glanced in the mirror. Not that he did that very much, especially now. There wasn't anyone in there he approved of enough anymore to want to be taking a closer look, certainly not the old Mark, and the new one not someone he much favored either. Not someone he would have wanted to lift a pint with, surely. 

Maybe he should just remove all the mirrors, except the one he needed for shaving. "Most likely get the rumor going I'm a vampire, but probably better than what else is most likely being said," he ground out as he turned away from his reflection. No, he hadn't heard anything new, just the occasional comment of the faintly derisory sort he'd become used to, but really, did there need to be anything new? Stupid on his part, that he'd never really taken any of those comments seriously. Could have prevented him getting off on the wrong foot earlier on.

The wardrobe came next. No more Carnaby street attire. Now it was sober, conventionally tailored suits, though off-the-rack, not the expensive handmade ones that Napoleon Solo sported. No, he didn't have the money or the inclination for that. Spending money on clothes that made him smile with satisfaction when he looked at them, when he wore them; that was one thing, but on these robot-without-a-name monstrosities he'd grimly paid what was necessary for something that Waverly should at least not grimace on viewing. He had to, really; he'd been given no choice. His nip-waisted jackets, colorful shirts and the rest were packed away in a box in the closet; he'd probably send them off to some charity or another when he got around to it.

He assiduously worked on all the rest, strict professional behavior, dedicated teacher and guide, constantly pushing April to be her best, to expand her capabilities, and although he thought he was doing a good job of it, the vibrations seemed off. 

"Like a turntable that insists on playing a 45 rpm record at 42 or 48 rpm's. Not totally BAD, just slightly off." 

He shook it off, though. They'd get used to the change, make the adjustment, and it would be all for the better. Surely it would, just with a little more practice. He really didn't like to think of the alternative.

 

***  
The job in Las Vegas had been their first really challenging field experience since he'd started remolding himself into the image of what a disapproving Alexander Waverly had so often explained that young Mark Slate should be but just wasn't. 

That had been a tricky one, that job, requiring every bit of skill they had, but they'd managed to get through it all, even the firefight at the end, did the job and made it back in one piece. They were at Venara's, having their usual after mission dinner, though this time, their first celebratory dinner since she'd noticed the change, it was different. HE was different.

She was dressed in a dashingly colorful mod outfit, lime green with splashes of ripe strawberry and citrus, well in keeping with the occasion. When she'd worn it in the past, Mark had chuckled and said she looked like a deliciously cool glass of limeade with fruit garnish! "Probably the reason all the blokes are staring at you with their mouths watering. Well, part of the reason anyway," he'd teased. She missed his teasing now, and he hadn't even commented on her outfit.

Mark had been dressed in somber gray, not his usual Carnaby street attire. No, this was another of those 'proper' suits he'd taken to wearing at the office, plain gray, not even a faint pinstripe to break the expanse, hardly any shape to it, along with a crisp white shirt and grey tie, attire even the Old Man would approve of. The color washed out his blue eyes, left them dull, unanimated, she thought. Or maybe it was more than the color that did that; maybe it was simply a reflection of how he felt inside. She was starting to get the feeling that was more the truth of the matter.

"Gray, Mark? Did you get an infestation of moths in your closet? Do you need me to take you shopping? It's not really your color. You look like a thundercloud," she teased. The glum look she got in return was rather apt to that description, if a little disconcerting coming from a man who'd always had such a ready smile. 

He ignored her comment, looked at her with a slight frown. Without any intervening pleasantries, he shook his napkin out into his lap and moved right into serious mode, almost like he'd geared himself up for it, couldn't let anything else get in the way, distract him.

"That business in Las Vegas, with Patterson. You're getting good at this, April; never seen better, in fact, the way you handled him. But sometimes I don't know if you're getting as good as I imagine, or if I'm just fooling myself, setting you up for the fall when it turns out you're not as good as you think you are. As good as I think you are." 

She looked at him strangely. "I have to be good at this, Mark. My life can depend on it; OUR lives may depend on it."

He didn't argue with that; well, how could he? After all, he was the one who'd taught her a great deal of what she'd used in that last job of theirs. Yet, what if Roustermann was right and he was wrong? At least about deceiving himself about her abilities, giving her the benefit of the doubt when maybe he shouldn't. He knew he didn't view April as competition, would never purposely steer her wrong or mislead her, but the other? Maybe he just wasn't the best judge of that.

"Your Performance Evaluation is coming up in a few weeks. Think I'm going to ask someone else to take on the 'Partner' side of it. That'll mean you'll be going out with someone else for a few trips. Someone maybe a little more objective. Someone who can more easily pinpoint your soft spots, where you need to improve. I'm sure Waverly can find something appropriate. And he's been wanting me to head to Bangkok, look at their installation there. Might be a good time for it."

Well, that was certainly out of the blue, at least from where she was sitting. The Partner Evaluation was an integral part of the general Performance Evaluation, and she'd never heard of it being handed off to someone else like he was suggesting.

He changed the subject, wouldn't discuss it any further. Their entrees came, were eaten mechanically, their conversation desultory and unmemorable.

The atmosphere slid to new lows, enough she didn't enjoy her chocolate mousse, and Mark barely touched his apple tart with cheddar. They left, mostly silent, and he left her at her apartment door with hardly a word. 

He spent a little time in Waverly's office the following morning and it was all put in motion, no matter how little she liked the idea.

 

And so it was. Mark left for Bangkok and April headed out with Mycroft for a little job in Hanover, then seconded Colburn in Montreal. Next she went as backup with Solo and Kuryakin on a jaunt to Ankara. 

It was during some downtime that she brought up the issue of her partner, both what she'd told them before, and this new wild hair of his about the Partner Review. "He's due back from Bangkok in a day or two, and I'd really like to have a better feel for what's going on by then. Do you have ANYTHING?"

Illya had looked at his partner, then told April, "wait til we've finished the job, April. We don't need the distraction right now. But, yes, I think we have some answers for you, or at least, know someone who WILL."

And she had to be satisfied with that, and yes, he was right. They needed all their focus on the job, foiling that Thrush plot and, once again, saving the world as they knew it.

But in the safehouse in Rome where they were awaiting word that their transport back to New York was ready, she brought up the subject again. After pouring them all a stiff drink, the two agents told her that's why they'd come back through Rome, that they had someone she needed to meet. It wasn't long before a light tap at the door had Carl Sheldon coming in to be introduced. 

It was Sheldon, an agent who had, until recently, worked out of the Munich office under Kyle Roustermann, who now gave her the background she'd been missing. About what had happened on that last assignment Mark had been sent on while she was laid up with the flu. At least, at the same time as that assignment, since Mark had been there on a totally separate matter.

"Barstow and Meadows. Meadows was senior, had been a field agent for maybe four years, Barstow was a newby. They'd been teamed up for about ten months when it happened."

"We were all in the Cafeteria, and the news had gone around quickly, like it always does when we lose an agent. Meadows was getting coffee, looking like death warmed over himself, people going over in ones and twos to offer a quiet word of sympathy, when Roustermann comes charging in."

"Well, Roustermann had recruited Barstow right out of college, always bragged he'd make it to the top in record time; rumor was he was Roustermann's nephew or some relation anyway. Kid had only been on the job a few months and Meadows had been his first partner, but it seemed to have been going well, good reviews, good job results; looked like Roustermann had been right with how good Barstow would be and how fast he'd make it up the ladder. Talking to Meadows, you'd get the same notion; he liked the kid, said he was a little over-eager, but had the makings of a really good agent. He was proud of him, you could tell."

"Roustermann comes over like a bear, really laid into Meadows, said it was him acting the fool, the clown, not taking things seriously enough that had got Barstow killed. Tore him apart, right there in the middle of the place, everyone around the whole time."

"And Roustermann wasn't even making any sense, just going off in all directions. Couldn't seem to make up his mind whether Meadows had done a lousy job teaching the kid just because he was too busy fooling around to get down to business, or whether Meadows had felt threatened by how good the kid was and sabotaged the kid's chances because of it. Even said maybe Meadows had faked the performance reviews, just to make himself look like one hotshot trainer. Meadows had already been taking it hard, you know, and that just finished him, Rousterman tearing him apart like that."

"And it wasn't fair. Sure, Meadows always had a joke to tell, a quick smile, an easy laugh; was easy to get along with and wasn't nearly as formal as you'd expect in that office. I know Roustermann really got on him for his hair being too long, his ties too bright, that sort of stuff."

"But, Miss Dancer, Meadows was a good agent, reliable, intelligent, had been bringing Barstow along nice and easy. Kept saying he was a natural, would be one of the best in time, if he would just take it slow, not push so hard. Thing is, kid got cocky, started thinking he was better than he really was, started thinking he was better than Meadows, had said a time or two that Meadows was holding him back. Meadows had reined him in, more than once, for his own good but there was no telling him that."

"That last job, Barstow had his assignment, knew what Meadows was doing, what he was supposed to do, but decided to do things his own way, totally against protocol. Made his move when Meadows was too far away to do anything to prevent it from all hitting the fan. It all went up in flames. The kid got dead, Meadows took a bullet in the arm trying to get to him. Whole job was a bust."

Sheldon looked at them, eyes shadowed as he remembered what came next. 

"That was bad enough, hearing all that, seeing Meadows' face as he listened to all that ranting. But then, when he saw no one else was going to step up, Mark walked over, tried to get Roustermann to calm down, take the pressure off; told him it was a right bear, sure enough, but it wasn't Meadows's fault. That he didn't need to be bashed like that. Meadows took the opportunity to turn and walk out."

"Roustermann was still in a high snit, but turned his back and stormed off. Mark followed after Meadows, and me too. Can't believe I just stood and watched all that," he said, shamefaced, "that ALL of us did, but Roustermann runs things with a hard hand, and we were all used to just taking it, I guess."

"We caught up to Meadows, all three of us headed out for a drink at a quiet place. Roustermann had made it out like Meadows didn't care, and that wasn't it. He was broken up, you could see that; well, hell, enough of us have been there, losing a partner. You are; of course you are, even if you aren't fast friends, and I know Meadows looked at Barstow like a kid brother. He'd already been tearing himself apart, thinking about what he could have done different, if he'd done this, said that; you know the drill. Then with Roustermann adding in his bit, that was just the capper."

"Started second-guessing himself, talking about 'maybe if', 'what if', 'I should have', mostly things coming from that explosion in the cafeteria, though we tried to talk him around that; thought we had, actually. By the time we saw him home, him shooing us away, saying he was glad of the company, appreciated it, but just needed a good night's sleep before facing Roustermann in the morning, he seemed as good as you could expect."

"Got in to the office in the morning, was having a cup of coffee with Mark in the cafeteria, keeping an eye out for Meadows, and here comes Roustermann, blood in his eye. He starts in on Mark. Just leftover frustration, I guess, but you'd have thought it was Mark who'd been teamed up with Barstow, and he hadn't been anywhere near that job, had barely nodded to either of the men in the cafeteria during his whole stay before this all happened."

"But as far as what Roustermann was ragging on about, him and Meadows were just alike, not fit to even have someone partner up with them. Started preaching about how it's only a matter of time before Mark brings Miss Dancer down, gets her killed."

"Standing there waving his arms, yelling. "Just like with Barstow! You're just like Meadows, Slate! - stupid hair, stupid clothes, always clowning around, faking your way through. Never taking anything serious! Your partner doesn't have a chance, does she, any more than Barstow had??! Oh, you'll teach her, but just enough that she's no threat to you! Just enough to let her get too confident! Just enough to get her killed! And you'll go on your merry way, shaking your head over the 'poor novice that just couldn't get it right'!"

"Then he drops the bomb, right there, no warning. Tells the whole room "AND a coward along with it, most probably, just like Meadows. HE ate his gun for breakfast, or so I just heard. Be better if he'd done it before he caused the damage! Barstow would still be here if he had! Don't see you having it in you to turn over a new leaf, so maybe you should consider that, Slate, or at least turning that partner over to someone better suited."

"Mark was stone-cold pale by then. Well, more than a few of us were; not good news to hear, about Meadows, not a good way to hear it. And that load of rubbish he'd just dumped on Mark, that was way beyond harsh."

"He didn't say much, then or later when he was packing up to head back home, but it's like a wall went up. Can't blame him; that was a lot to take, especially with him just being in the wrong place to catch Roustermann's grief."

April was more than a little pale herself by that time, partly shock, partly pure rage. She'd listened while Sheldon filled in some more details, told of how he'd put in for transfer that same afternoon, and had headed out to greener pastures with someone different in charge. He was at one of the smaller offices now, an hour out of Rome, and happy to be there.

After he'd left, she turned to Napoleon and Illya, swallowed hard. 

"So that's why Mark wanted me working with other agents, for having someone, more than one someone, do the Partner Review. He doesn't trust his own opinion anymore, not where I'm concerned. Well, what do YOU think?"

There was no doubt she wanted the absolute truth, however harsh that might prove to be. Fortunately, the truth wasn't harsh at all, their opinions lining up pretty much with her partner had shared with her in their own after-mission debriefings.

"And that's right in line with what Mycroft and Colburn reported, after you worked with them," Napoleon told her.

"Alright, that's a relief, of course, and is proof of just how wrong Kloustermann was. But now, how do I get my partner back? I'll tell you both, this new one is no joy to work with; the rhythm is all off, and one of us is going to make a serious mistake if it keeps on the way it's going. I can't read him as well, and I find he keeps misreading me, second-guessing what's going on - that didn't happen much, even in the beginning, and hardly ever as we got accustomed to working together. And as for his personality, he's turning into a younger version of the Old Man," she complained, that bringing a reluctant smile to the faces of the other two agents. They doubted either Mark OR Waverly would be flattered by hearing that comment.

The news Napoleon gave her, that Mark had mentioned maybe April would be better off with a new partner entirely, had her seething. "So that's why he keeps parading those stuffed shirts past me at the office; trying to see if there's a possible match? I mean, can you really see me with Daniels, or Paulson? Drat the man!"

A different partner? That wasn't going to happen, not if she could help it, but the current situation wasn't going to stand either.

She didn't sleep on the plane, though she'd been without sleep for quite some time; her mind was too busy tossing and turning over all she'd learned. 

 

Back in New York, reports done, that pesky Evaluation behind her, (and yes, she had come through with flying colors, all FOUR Partner reviews bearing out her ever-improving level of expertise!), she made a determined call to his apartment. She'd kept it very business like, just an appeal for his help with something that was troubling her about one of the assignments, and he was at her door, ready to render whatever help she might need, just as always.

Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn't been her firmly setting him down on her couch, pouring them both a stiff drink, and making no bones about the fact that they WERE going to have a discussion, a very serious one, and he WAS going to participate fully.

"I heard about Berlin, Mark, and I'm surprised at you. Remember what I told you in Biscay? If you ever tried to hide that you're hurt, I'd give you something to really moan about? Do you really want to put that to the test?" she asked, hoping to break through that wall he'd placed between them.

From the startled look on his face, she might have at least open a chink in the wall. 

"But I didn't take a scratch, April. Mostly running a security review, nothing too dire," he protested.

"Not all hurt is on the outside, though, is it, Mark? That doesn't make it any less real, does it?" she asked, and his face showed she had indeed hit the nail on the head. 

She refilled his glass, sat down on the drawn-up coffee table in front of where he was perched on her couch, where he couldn't get up and walk away without moving her aside, which he was unlikely to do, and took a steadying sip from her own drink. She'd already laid that cricket bat on the table beside her, letting him get a good look at it, and the meaningful way she patted it. That got a ghost of a rueful smile from her partner, and that was enough encouragement to send her straight to the crux of the matter.

"Alright, partner, we've got a few things to get straight."

 

The bottle was half-empty, they'd talked til their throats were sore, though their minds and spirits were much more at ease, and now, in the wee hours of the morning, they'd come to some level of understanding, a measure of peace. He'd spend the night on her couch, and in the morning they'd head back to Mark's apartment where she would carry out her firm resolution of pitching that new wardrobe into the charity bin and getting his Carnaby street attire back in its accustomed place in his closet. And he'd promised not to revisit that barber with the run-amok scissors again, but would head back to Lorenzo who actually had a feel for how his hair should be handled.

Stepping up the training a notch or two, well that was all for the better; she was ready for that. But as for the notion of him finding her a new partner? That was off the table, once and for all. They were a team, for better or worse, and if he needed reminding of that, well, she had a cricket bat in her closet she was quite willing to pull out again. True, Cousin Caeide said SHE had used a tea kettle, but this was what April had handy, and it seemed to get the idea across just fine.

***April's POV:  
As she drifted off to sleep, she smiled with sweet malice. {"And if I ever run in to Mr. Kloustermann-in-Berlin, I hope I have that cricket bat with me as well. If not, well, I'm sure I can find SOMETHING that would serve the purpose!! Of course, that probably wouldn't be ladylike. Maybe I could make just one little exception to the notion of always being a lady, just to get the idea firmly across. No? Well, I'll think on it for awhile; surely I can come up with something, Maybe I should call Cousin Caeide for suggestions. I'll bet Caeide or one of her sisters would have some good ideas; they DID seem to have a neat hand with those who got above themselves. No one messes with my partner! No one!!"} She had ruefully acknowledged that she probably had to exempt Alexander Waverly from that prohibition, all things considered, but even there, she didn't have to like it!

She sighed in contentment. Morning would come, and the team of Slate/Dancer would be ready to roll back into action. Together, side by side, in good accord with each other. Just the way it was supposed to be.

 

***Mark's POV:  
The couch was not as comfortable as his own bed, but it had a few advantages other than avoiding the solitary trip back to his own place, primarily being the proximity to his partner. Having April around just made things feel BETTER, somehow. 

He smiled into the warm quilt she had draped over him. April Dancer - his partner. He could say that in all honesty once again. 

And it seemed their partnership was just as important to her as it was to him, from the way she'd fought him at his every disclaimer this evening. Fought and overpowered every argument he put forth. There had even been a time or two, when she obviously felt he was being overly stubborn in digging in on a position, when she'd patted that cricket bat and given him a very meaningful look. That made him him hmmmph in amusement now, though drowning the slight sound in his pillow.

Well, his primary misgivings HAD been overturned after the Evaluations came through with such high marks, including the Partnership Reviews. If anyone could have spotted any areas he'd been off in his judgement, it would have been the team of Solo/Kuryakin, and Mycroft and Colburn were no pushovers either - fair, but stern in their requirements. 

So maybe he hadn't done her wrong, shortchanged her after all. Maybe she was even right in her assessment of Roustermann; it had bordered on the unladylike, though never crossing the line, but it was clear she thought his head was better suited for use as a bedpan, or maybe a soccer ball, than for thinking. 

{"Probably best if we avoid Berlin anytime in the near future, if possible. April may be a lady, but there's no sense in putting TOO much temptation in her path."}

He glanced at the clock. {"Best get an hour or two's sleep, Mark old boy. Looks like tomorrow will be a busy day for Team Dancer/Slate. Slate/Dancer. Oh, whichever; both sound just fine."}. Another yawn, and he was asleep.


End file.
